The Sauron Paradigm Shift
by Vividpast
Summary: Sauron travels back in time to prevent his demise. He fails and succeeds at the same time. Or, the story of how a stubborn Dark Lord and an equally stubborn Hobbit deal with their differences without killing the other. OR, the story of how Sauron is defeated by Hobbit common sense. Sauron & Bilbo Friendship, Pre-Slash Bagginshield.
1. The End of Sauron

**A/N:** Suffering from Love Pays No Indemnity withdrawal, my mind decided that this story should exist. Instead of writing for A Suicidal Journey, my muse told me 'Eh, what about a story about Sauron and Bilbo becoming BFFs and saving Middle Earth? Power of friendship and love save all?'

Things to note:

1.) I know little about the Tolkien universe so inaccuracies can be expected from this story. Please point these out and I shall do my best to correct them!

2.) I've taken some liberties and invented some facts to fit the story better. So, some inaccuracies _are_ intentional :P

3.) It's my first time trying this kind of writing. I call it 'high-writing' because it describes a metaphysical world which transcends the concrete world, and I really suck at it. Let me know whether I should stick to straightforward, non-metaphysical writing!

4.) As usual, anything other than a oneshot from me has a high risk of staying incomplete. I'm really sorry for doing this a lot T^T. I go where my muse goes, unfortunately.

5.) The cover art I got from loki-nightfire at tumblr. Check out their other artworks!

6.) The Bagginshield is pre-slash and might stay that way. DON'T EVER READ FOR THE SLASH ALONE 'CAUSE YOU WILL BE DISAPPOINTED.

Lastly, I hope you enjoy this feel-good story ~

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 ** _Paradigm Shift_**

 _\- Describes a profound change in a fundamental model or the perception of events_

 _\- Basic and fundamental principles may be shown to have an error and there is a need to look at the same information in a completely different way_

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When his ring kissed the scorching heat of the fires in which it was made, Sauron's fëa hissed in bodiless agony. His strength waned in a continuous stream, drained by the whispers of the earth, the jeers of the skies, and the croons of the trees. A Song rang in the air, a joyfully aggressive harmonization of a thousand voices. It was the Song of life, of light, of freedom, of hope, of praise. It was the Song of victory and one that was not meant for Sauron.

His ring melted in the oppressive heat, and an indescribable torment ripped through his whole being. In that moment, Sauron knew complete defeat.

His consciousness slowly spread and thinned over Middle Earth, parts of him chipping away to be oppressed by the unbearable warmth of kind and selfless souls. The gleeful cries of Men, Dwarves, and Elves reverberated in the cold heavy air of Mordor, dissipating the pall of darkness and death.

 _No._ What remained of Sauron's soul vibrated with unadulterated rage and damnable despair. He Sang a thundering melody, inviting grief and doubt and hate. But hope drowned away his words and clawed at his fëa in response.

 _We've won, oh Abhorred One,_ the mortals and Children of Ilúvatar cheered as one, tone not one of taunting but just one of sheer delight. _We've fought, we've suffered, we've lived, and we've won!_

Sauron could not win against the onslaught of their Song. He would be destroyed, obliterated with naught a speck of his being left. Feebly, he chanted a promise of vengeance.

 _You will not know freedom, free will! To know order, you must be subjugated by me! I will not be conquered!_

The music was snatched away by laughter before anyone could hear.

The Dark Lord gathered the shadows of his fëa, mere wisps fluttering in the hopeful air.

The war ended, the children of Morgoth scattering chaotically in the absence of its master and victory of their foes. Each creature of evil bolted without a thought to their comrades, each knowing that their days were now numbered.

Sauron retreated to the deepest darkest recesses of mortal hearts where he could neither influence nor overpower even the lowliest of creatures. His consciousness would have faded, had he tarried a moment more, leaving what was once Sauron just mere shadows in corners and soft whispers in the wind.

As it was, the Dark Lord could be described as a weakened spirit but just barely. He lurked in the darkest crevices of the world, struggling not to get trampled by the strengthening light smothering the darkness he once spread.

All manner of creatures and the Valar rejoiced, thinking him gone forever.

Across the lands, the colors grew brighter. The infestation in Mirkwood healed with no support from the Dark Lord. Orcs and goblins were hunted, numbers quickly dwindling down. Life who had not known Sauron's wrath blossomed beautifully, joining thousands of voices in their praise of Ilúvatar.

Sauron watched it all with disgust.

He travelled from mortal to mortal, unbeknownst, trying to consume their fëa to empower his own. The destruction of his ring, however, had made him impotent, and he failed to regain any kind of strength.

Sauron might not have met his end like the whole Middle Earth thought but he would never again be capable of conquest.

Fury ripped through his whole being, and even as he screamed, not a single creature heard him. Even his anger held no power, did nothing but ruffled a few leaves on trees. He was once the mightiest on this plane, and now he had been reduced to a sprite incapable of even summoning an hröa of his own.

But.

As the flickering tendrils of his fëa cooled, a great epiphany dawned to him. The beginnings of a plan sparked in his mind. Even the great minds of the Valar would not have anticipated it. His scheme expanded until there was no doubt to his success.

He roared with gleeful laughter. Oh, his vow of revenge would be fulfilled. In a way, he would ensure the promise would have never been spoken in the first place.

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Eons passed, and Sauron waited. He was patient, had always been patient. He nibbled at mortal souls, making certain that he would not wink out of existence. The indignity burned him but the guarantee of reward calmed his wrath. The mortals were barely affected by his deeds, the fëa the Dark Lord consumed barely making an impact in their thoughts and lifespans.

At last, the most peaceful era rose. Vairë, weaver of the stories of the world, had been made complacent. She would weave no great destinies in this age, desiring to rest her nimble fingers and spend time with her husband. As such, the tapestries of the world were left alone for but a moment.

A moment was all Sauron needed.

A fëa bounded in an hröa was grounded in the plane of Middle Earth. The Maia, with their strong and enormous fëa, cannot slip between the strands of the embroideries.

Sauron was neither bound in an hröa nor had a powerful fëa. His weakness had ensured his triumph. He dove in between the threads and stories, fighting against the current of time. He spun his way across the braids of forgotten wars and falling kingdoms. He twisted away from the plaits of boisterous celebrations and royal births.

His quest was not easy, each knot attempting to shake his consciousness apart. He persevered but he knew that soon, the tapestries would take too much of him. And he would truly be destroyed.

An eternity flitted by, and at last, just as Sauron's strength was nearly gone, the weave of his demise revealed itself. Without another thought, he reached out, grasped it, and pulled hard.

In the tapestry of the Battle of the Five Armies, a kink in the perfect knot formed.

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When Sauron came to his senses, he was overlooking a lake, a mountain and a large expanse of burnt land. Armies of Elves, Men, Dwarves gathered at the foot of the mountain as a larger platoon of orcs and goblins marched their way.

Dizzy and still weakened from fighting against the flow of time, Sauron wobbled in the blood-soaked air.

The Sauron of this time dissipated without a trace and without much flourish, the enfeebled Dark Lord of the future replacing him. Not that this Sauron, at this point in time, had been much stronger.

A small price to pay, the Dark Lord mused. In a couple of decades, the Sauron of the past would be defeated once more.

But there was no time for such thoughts. Vairë would soon be back to weaving her drapes. She would correct the plait, and Sauron would have done all this for naught.

The Dark Lord, an unseen fëa in the wind, drew closer to the armies. He darted past the Men, the Elves, and the Dwarves. Olórin, when Sauron was scant meters away, straightened abruptly. The ruby of Narya upon his gnarled finger glowed faintly in the Dark Lord's presence.

Sauron sucked in a sharp breath. Celebrimbor's ring! To think Olórin had one of them this time! He chuckled. Oh, how easy it would be to steal, how effortlessly Sauron would gain another artifact that was rightfully his!

But Narya was not the ring he sought after. Olórin could keep it for now.

The Maia's sharp gaze roamed warily but with no real concern. The Dark Lord's fëa was too decrepit to evoke an air of any real danger. Indeed, just as Olórin failed to notice the One Ring as it stood by his side, so too would he fail to detect Sauron.

He passed by the Maia, and trailed over his prize.

While it had been Frodo Baggins who had journeyed to Mordor to destroy the One Ring, Sauron's ruin began with Bilbo Baggins.

As the Dark Lord glimpsed upon the guileless anxious face of his demise, rage and irritation trickled into his being. Such a small soft powerless creature had brought about the defeat of the mightiest of the Maiar! Sauron would love nothing more than to devour the Halfling's melodic fëa, beat it into submission and torment it for eternity. Slowly, he would twist and break the Halfling's soul until it resembled that of an orc's.

Luckily for Bilbo Baggins, Sauron had no time for frivolities.

The Dark Lord stood in front of the Halfling, allured by the artifact nestled in his pocket. His ring, his precious wicked ring! How he missed it! Sauron longed to wear it upon his finger once more, to be complete and utterly indestructible.

In his current state, however, he was unable to form an hröa, let alone one strong enough to handle the power of his ring. He had not the strength to absorb another's fëa to restore his own; he could not overpower anyone who would resist him. But Bilbo Baggins had been exposed to the One Ring's influence for months and the beginnings of darkness creeped into his mind (Although it would not be enough. One day, the Halfling would still have the strength to resist and willingly give up the One Ring to his ward to be destroyed). Already, the Halfling's soul was linked Sauron's, like the previous ring bearers were.

The Halfling was just what Sauron needed to regain enough might to consume other fëar. Sauron merely needed to ensure that he would not resist the Dark Lord's attempts to annihilate him.

It was easier than one would think. Sauron shared memories with his ring once it came near Mordor, once Frodo Baggins gave in to the ring's temptation at that last moment before the end. The fëa coating the jewelry called out to its master, signaling its location. The ring saw through its bearers' minds, and Sauron's Great Eye inherited its experiences. In an instant, he knew everything there was to know about Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.

Sauron put his plan into action. He stretched and reached out to the Halfling's mind, touch unobtrusive and disarming. Still, the Halfling's eyes widened and he released an almost inaudible gasp.

 _Look, Bilbo Baggins,_ Sauron Sang, sadness and despair warring in his voice. It took all of his will not to recoil in revolt. _Tragedy awaits you in the oncoming war._

The Dark Lord fed the Halfling's mind with gore and grime. He showed him friends being cut down, let him hear the horrified screams, filled him with the smell of blood and rot, and introduced the touch of the spongy entrails of a dark-haired dwarf. It did not matter that some of them did not ever come to pass.

 _No, no, no!_ The Halfling cried out, devastated beyond belief. _No, please, no!_

Sauron stifled a smirk in the face of the Halfling's anguish.

He could not help but croon, _Oh, Bilbo Baggins, such havoc looms in the near future. Friends will be slaughtered, foes will triumph! Oh, poor little hobbit, so far away from home. Came along with nothing, came back having lost all._

 _No! I-It won't happen. I won't allow it! The conviction behind the promise startled Sauron out of his Music. I'll save them, I'll save them all, continued the Halfling. His_ fëa burned with unparalleled determination, the Songs of his life harmonizing into one euphonious hymn.

Sauron grappled with the harmony of his own Song, realizing his astonishment had cost him. _Save them all indeed! I've an offer, brave little burglar. I beg you to accept._ The Dark Lord fought down a shudder of displeasure. He Sang in a cloying tone, _Today, not one life will be taken, not one soul forfeit except that of yours._

Quicker that Sauron expected, Bilbo Baggins realized the implication of his words. Confusion stirred him. _My life for the life of thousands?_

Billions, Sauron thought with dark amusement. Every creature in Middle Earth owed their lives to the Halfling. At this war, thousands would die to reclaim the Lonely Mountain, an important stronghold against Sauron's forces. At this war, thousands would die just so Bilbo Baggins, the longest bearer of his ring, could live. Theses lives were a small sacrifice, Sauron supposed, compared to the lives lost should the Halfling die in this battle.

No matter. That was another lifetime. In this one, Bilbo Baggins would not get a chance to play hero.

 _My strength wavers, my powers weak. Bestow upon me your soul and it shall be enough,_ Sauron replied, inserting a kernel of truth. _I plead for your swift agreement. The children of Morgoth marches on, armed with death and destruction. Let me save the children of the light! If the price is too steep –"_

 _I'll do it,_ interjected the Halfling. In the physical realm, he raised his head, gaze towards a balcony in the mountain holding thirteen dwarves. Hope glimmered in his eyes. _Please take it. Defeat the orcs and the goblins, and save my friends._ Then, with his mind, the Halfling reached out, unknowingly touched fëar with the Dark Lord, and opened himself up for the assault.

Desperation blinded Bilbo Baggins to the signs, to pause and think on the truth of the supposed savior's Song. Sauron took advantage, and did not hesitate to take the unresisting soul offered to him. He engulfed the Songs binding the Halfling's fëa together, scraping the soul from the body.

The devouring should have went easily and painlessly. But Sauron must have miscalculated, must have missed something in his plans. The Halfling's fëa was hard to swallow, and difficult to absorb.

 _Sauron!_ Bilbo Baggins finally realized with horror.

 _Yes,_ Sauron replied, wanting to sound smug but knew he was far too exhausted and distracted for it. _Foolish little Halfling. Far too late to resist, far too late for anything._

But the Halfling's fëa did not merge effortlessly with Sauron's, and all his remaining strength were put into trying to subdue the Halfling's Songs.

 _Forcing a square peg on a circular one,_ flitted by Sauron's mind. And he found it perfectly described his situation. _Uh, no, that metaphor was mine, thank you very much, you confusicating evil creature!_ The Halfling scratched at every part of Sauron's being, trying to draw away. But Sauron had devoured more than half of what was Bilbo Baggins, and he clutched the Halfling to try and consume the rest.

Their fëar battled with each other, low and high-pitched chants clashing for dominance. Sauron should not be losing; the Halfling's consciousness should have already dissipated. Sauron could feel his fëa being revitalized from his consumption, painful as the process might be. Yet what remained of the Halfling's fëa struggled fiercely, giving no leeway. Sauron supposed he should have expected no less from the bringer of his doom.

In their inner turmoil, something broke and neither knew what. Light spilled, darkness smothered, and Songs reached their peak.

The Halfling opened his mouth and let out a gut-wrenching scream, and Sauron found himself doing the same. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,_ they cried out as one.

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Centuries-worth of tapestries unraveled, threads uncoiling and slipping out of the Halls of Mandos. Vairë sobbed as she saw the mess that were once her greatest stories.

The Valar scrambled to find answers. _What has happened? How can this be? What do we do next? What of Middle Earth? What of my children?_

 _ **What of Sauron?**_

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When the Dark Lord came to, it seemed as if eternities have passed. Yet as he opened the eyes of the hröa that now contained his fëa, the shocked faces of Elves, Men, Dwarves, and one Maia met him. A glinting golden ring rested comfortably upon his middle finger.

The cooling corpse of the Halfling laid by his feet.

"What is the meaning of this?" the human leader – Bard, the Halfling's memory offered – gasped out. His eyes flicked to Sauron's form and the Halfling's body.

Power swirled inside him, beautiful and immense. Oh, this was more than he could hope for. With the possession of his ring and the feeding of the Halfling's fëa, he was nearly back to his full strength – the power he last had during the Second Age, before Isildur cut his ring from his hand.

"Sauron," Olórin said with fear, staff raised and countenance well-guarded. The king of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil Oropherion, backed away, expression as dark as night. "What have you done?"

"Sauron!?" the Dwarf-royalty called Dain exclaimed, weapon raised.

"Wha's happening down there?" One of the Dwarves peered down from above the mountain.

"W-Why's Bilbo laying on the ground?"

"W-Wha-Who's that?"

"Something's not right about him."

The murmurs rippled through the crowds but few recognized the evil incarnate. Sauron grinned and stepped over the corpse of the Halfling. The nearest creatures startled and stepped away, perturbed. The Dark Lord laughed, taking pleasure in their reactions.

Sauron had important matters to attend to but he could not resist twisting the knife in.

"I have your burglar to thank, Olórin," Sauron remarked casually, lifting his right hand to brandish the One Ring. The leaders of the armies flinched. "He seems to have found my ring."

The wizard's eyes widened as realization set in. Yes, the ring he had let the burglar keep, assured that it was no more than a useful trinket. Olórin's gaze dipped to the ground where the Halfling was sprawled, motionless. Grief deepened the lines of his wizened face.

"But how?" was Thranduil's disbelief-laden question. "Sauron has been vanquished!"

The said Dark Lord let out a deep-throated laugh. "Have I, Oropherion? Who then stands before you?"

"It cannot be." Bard denied, the beginnings of terror painting his expression.

"Sauron?" The incredulous whisper should have been lost to the wind. Sauron had heard nonetheless.

He raised his head towards the mountain, locking gazes with periwinkle eyes. The dwarf-king let out a surprised breath, face pale and gaunt. The skin around his eyes was bruised, lips dry and cracking. His stare shifted lower and like Olórin, he took in the lone cadaver stiffening by the foot of the mountain.

Sauron watched as the dwarf-king's murky eyes cleared, akin to stormy clouds blown away to reveal very blue skies.

"Bilbo?" was the soft gasp.

Something deep within Sauron unraveled, and he found his next exhale to be a bit breathless. Before he could investigate the phenomena further, a war cry echoed in the heavy air. His head snapped towards the source, just in time to see Dain and a group of Dwarves charging forward.

"Dain, no!" Olórin bellowed but the order fell on deaf ears.

Amused by their recklessness, Sauron met their attack halfway. Even without a weapon, the Dark Lord knew the Dwarves were no match for him. The mere proximity to Sauron's presence caused half of the Dwarves to freeze. The other half laid in a pathetic heap not too soon after. Dain trembled, one arm and leg severely broken, but stubbornly rose up against the foe he could not hope to defeat.

Fortunately for the Dwarf, Sauron had decided he had dawdled enough. With one last smirk towards the leaders of the armies, the Dark Lord unbounded his fëa from its hröa, and flew towards Ravenhill.

Azog recognized him the moment he landed. The white orc dropped to his knees, his subjects following instantly.

"My Lord," Azog rasped out, awe marring his face as he gazed upon his master.

"Call off your army," Sauron demanded without a greeting, Black Speech ripping guttural sounds from his throat. "We will be defeated in this war."

A good chunk of Sauron's forces had fallen here. It had taken decades to breed enough orcs to replace the ones that had met their deaths in the Battle of the Five Armies. And for what? In the end, the Lonely Mountain had not been reclaimed.

This time, Sauron would not waste his resources. The war he would rage against all races of Middle Earth would come to pass sooner than eighty years.

Azog's head snapped up at the declaration. "But, my Lord, the Dwarves –"

"Do not question my orders," Sauron cut in, voice lilting in what could be a start of a Song. His flaming eyes belied the calmness of his words.

"Right away, Dark Lord." Azog bowed low, forehead almost kissing the ground. Then, he scrambled to his feet, and shouted orders. He signaled the armies approaching the Lonely Mountain to stand down and retreat.

Sauron watched as legions of orcs and goblins slowly withdrew, preventing the large war that would tremendously deplete their forces.

 _And preventing the death of the Durin line._

The Dark Lord frowned, wondering why that would matter. Oh, yes. Dain, while hot-headed, had played an important role in strengthening the defenses against Sauron's armies. Clever and quick to act, Dain Ironfoot had easily bested the children of Morgoth. That incompetent gold-sick dwarf now sat on the throne; the Durins lived to ensure Erebor's downfall.

He allowed himself a smile. Oh, how everything had fallen to plan.

"To Mordor, we march!"

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 **A/N:**

If you like this story, please go and read Love Pays No Indemnity by Jana! Read and review that, and maybe Jana will finally update ;_; ! Don't be discourage by the pairing! Gods, I swear everything about the story is amazing and believable and romantic!

Constructive criticisms are very much welcome!

Have you ever heard of a baby's laughter? I have a new cousin, and I hear their laughter every day, and it really lifts up my spirit. I hope that you too hear something that will lift your spirits! ^_^

~ Vividpast


	2. The World Shifts

"I do not understand." Bard ran a hand through his hair, agitated. His face was twisted in puzzlement and denial, the skin around his eyes bruised. "There has been no indication – no warning at all."

"Perhaps the great Gandalf himself can explain," Thranduil said with a bite of sarcasm. The Elven King's complexion still bore an unhealthy pale pallor, and one can see the terror glimmering in the coldness of his eyes.

The hunched form of the wizard clad in gray robes barely moved. His eyes were glazed, no trace of the ever-present spark of mischief and amusement in them. "I'm afraid I do not understand it myself." Sauron did not have the power to leave Mordor where the Lady Galadriel had vanquished him. He should not have known where his ring was nor had the ability to get it himself. The wizard let out a breath. There were powers at work that were beyond his comprehension.

"I know this might ring false," Balin intervened gently. "But the Dark Lord is the least of our problems right now."

All heads snapped up, attention on the white-haired Dwarf. Balin cleared his throat. "Winter is almost upon us. Provisions are low and many Men of Laketown are injured. Sauron is gone and so is the orc army. We must focus on the here and now."

Thranduil lifted an elegant brow. "Is the King Under the Mountain ready to bargain then?"

"As you may have already guessed with my presence, yes, he is," Balin replied, a touch sardonic. "I represent His Highness in all of our dealings."

"Is the king preoccupied with more important things?" the Elven King drawled out.

Balin gritted his teeth. Thankfully, Bard spoke before the Dwarf and Elf could trade insults. "Very well, Master Dwarf. It is clear that it is my people who is in dire need of help in these circumstances. We have no shelter . . ."

The meetings between the three races continued long into the night, each negotiating their terms and pushing their demands. The lone Maia bade farewell not even a few hours later. Gandalf could not stay and ensure peace was achieved. He had to trust that the three races would achieve it eventually without his guidance.

Sauron has returned. The White Council must gather and prepare for the dark age that would come. The land around the Lonely Mountain suddenly became the least of Gandalf's problems. The wizard had already sent a missive to the Lady Galadriel, informing her of what transpired. Gandalf was quite certain, however, that she already knew. The Lady Galadriel was powerful; there was no doubt that she felt the encroaching darkness the moment the Dark Lord took form, just as Gandalf had.

The wizard's journey to the meeting would be long and arduous. But he had one last farewell to say before he went. He wandered past the tents of Men and Elves, and entered the gates of the Lonely Mountain. The guards stationed at the entrance let him, merely giving him a cursory glance. Gandalf traipsed past the darkened musty halls of the kingdom, climbing down long spiral stairs, and slipping into wide unused passages. After almost an hour of trekking, he finally arrived at his destination.

Lit candles peppered the corners of the enormous chamber, emitting the only light and warmth in this level of the mountain. Slabs of stones filled the chamber, each lined with intricate runes and curling designs. All slabs stood bereft – all except for one.

Twelve Dwarves gathered around the small form lying motionlessly upon the raised platform. The air was heavy with grief, the silence deafening. A wave of sorrow overcame the wizard, and he forced himself to walk closer.

The Dwarves silently shifted to give him space, eyes never leaving what remained of their fourteenth member. Gandalf himself turned to look.

Bilbo Baggins, clad in a mithril shirt and a royal blue overcoat, laid serenely as if in mere slumber. Different kinds of flowers, both real and made of gems, decorated his bed; the paleness of his skin and lack of glow of his honeyed curls was made prominent by the bright glittering colors. His hands rested on his chest, fingers wrapped around the hilt of his Elven sword.

The Hobbit appeared peaceful but Gandalf, and only Gandalf, knew his passing was anything but. Being the first to approach and look closely upon the Hobbit's body, the wizard had seen a most horrific sight. In death, Bilbo's face was twisted in unbearable pain and fright, his mouth frozen in a soundless scream. Black veins webbed the skin of his cheeks, and his pupils had turned milky white. Within a second, the Maia had deduced the fate of Bilbo Baggins; his fëa had been ruthlessly torn from his body, leaving only traces of the dark arts used to do the deed.

It was one of the most agonizing deaths the Free People could ever be subjected to. To think that it would happen to a kindly child of the West broke the wizard's heart. Shame and guilt had filled Gandalf's entire being, and he could barely keep his composure. Bilbo Baggins was never meant to die this way.

The wizard had immediately erased the traces of Bilbo's suffering and closed his lifeless eyes. No one else would know of the torment he endured; it was Gandalf's burden to carry alone.

One of the Dwarves released a muffled sob, the sound echoing in the vast space, but none turned to look. The Dwarves were all solemn, standing vigil over the only casualty of the almost war. A Dwarf, in particular, stood close to the dais, hands clenched tightly upon the stone.

Gandalf drew closer, approaching the body and coming up beside the Dwarf. Upon closer look, one cannot deny the deathly pallor of the Hobbit's skin. One cannot pretend that he was just asleep.

Later, Gandalf would be merciless. He would work incessantly to ensure Sauron's downfall. Shadows would close around the children of Morgoth, the Free People would unite, and all would feel the might of Olórin.

For now, however, he and twelve Dwarves would grieve long into the night.

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The fortress of Barad-dûr was as pristine as ever, the slaves making sure everything was in perfect order. For a short while, when commands from the shadow that was Sauron-of-the-past fail to come, chaos had reigned. Orc generals fought each other for the right to rule, diminishing Sauron's forces by a less than a thousand. But when the Dark Lord arrived with a living speaking hröa and an army upon his back, order had been restored.

Sauron's soldiers pitched their tents in the Plains of Gorgoroth and inside the gates of Mordor, settling down in their once home now that their master had returned.

Sauron breathed in the air full of victory and laughed. Men and corrupted beasts alike cowered at the sound.

And so, life in Mordor sparked and the children of Morgoth flourished. Sauron was once again seated on his throne.

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Sauron hummed, staring at the full-body ornate mirror. Pale slender fingers ran down the material of the sleeveless tunic. The flannel was smooth to touch, the rich color of ebony pleasing to the eyes. Edged with a deep dark red color and padded with silk in the inside, the raiment was a comfortable wear. The coal-colored trousers were a bit smothering, though. Sauron wondered if brighter colors, akin to grass-green or sky-blue, would be more appropriate for him. He caught himself and shook his head, ridding himself of the notion. Brighter colors? Ridiculous.

"I-It suits you, m-my Lord," the tailor said in the silence, wringing his hands.

"If I desired your opinion, I would have asked for it," Sauron remarked calmly.

The greasy nearly-balding Man blanched, the whites of his eyes popping out. His breathing stuttered and he trembled ever so slightly. Sauron smirked; it pleased him to be feared so.

"The tunic satisfies me. Adjust the trousers. Make it so that I can move freely."

"It w-will be done, my Lord."

Sauron removed the raiment and changed into his previous garment. The tailor hurried to gather his tools and the clothing, breathing ragged. Just as the Man moved to exit his chambers, an idea entered the Dark Lord's mind.

"Wait."

As was proper, the tailor halted all movements, body stiff and hands clenched tightly around the clothes.

Sauron ruminated for several seconds, debating upon the benefits of the object he wanted. Then, he spoke, "Handkerchiefs."

"H-Handkerchiefs, my Lord?" The Man blinked rapidly, astonishment clear on his face.

"Yes. Seven, perhaps." One for each day of the week, Sauron decided.

Although Mordor had been scrubbed inside and out by the slaves, some dirt and dust clung stubbornly to its walls. Sauron had felt disgusted when he inadvertently laid a hand on the stones. He, of course, punished the assigned slaves appropriately for their shortcomings. Having handkerchiefs to wipe the grime on his skin would be useful.

"Do y-you have any preferred c-colors, my Lord?"

Again, the notion of bright greens and blues crossed his mind. He perished it from his mind once more. "Simple colors would do. Nothing gaudy."

"Very good, my L-Lord. A-Anything else, my Lord?"

Sauron waved a dismissive hand. "You may go. I expect them to be done by the morrow."

The tailor's expression became pinched but he wisely said nothing. The Man bowed and left quickly. Sauron watched him leave with amusement.

The Dark Lord turned back to the mirror, staring at himself at length.

Long black hair shimmered with the flickering firelight, the tips curling inwards ever so slightly. The stature of an Elf was tall and elegant; with Sauron, it was even more so. His eyes still glittered a beautiful golden color, although his ears sized a bit too wide for an Elf's. He traced prominent cheekbones, cherry-red lips twitching into a delighted smile.

During the Second Age, where Eru himself flooded the island of Númenor, Sauron's original body had been destroyed. His ability to assume a fair shape had perished with it. From then on, the Dark Lord's hröa was like that of an orc's; ugly, wart-covered, and asymmetric. Sauron disliked the disorderliness of it.

And now, it seemed consuming the untainted fëa of a Free People had given him back his charm. His hröa was pleasing to the eye. He would be able to use it to his advantage.

 _Arrogant git._

 _It is not arrogance if it is true._

Sauron paused, wondering why he was arguing with himself. He gave one last glance at the mirror, and one last smirk, before going back to planning.

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Sauron calmly stood by the gates of Mordor as a group of Easterlings marched towards him. He adopted a bored expression but his eyes belied his alertness. The procession of dozen, clad in the thinnest of armor and dressed in earth-colored furs, halted just a few feet away.

One Easterling broke away from the group, clearly the leader. He removed his helmet, revealing disheveled ginger hair and freckles upon a surprisingly young face. He could be no older than twenty-five summers for a Man. "You are the one who called for us," he stated in heavily-accented Westron. "I am Ulfang, Chief of the Bórian Tribes. You are the Mouth of Sauron?"

"I am Sauron," the Dark Lord answered curtly in fluent Baradhrin.

The browns of the Chief's eyes flashed with undisguised astonishment. His gaze took in the rich material of the other's clothing, the pale unblemished skin, the Elven-like appearance and grace.

Ulfang cocked a brow and spoke in his native language, "Not many would claim to be the Lord of Mordor."

Sauron grinned, pearly white teeth out and visible. "I expect not. It would be most unfortunate for them."

The Easterling and the Dark Lord stared at each other, measured gazes testing the worth of the other. The Chief's soldiers stood idly by, unease evident in their countenance.

"I did not know that Sauron could take a fair form," Ulfang remarked casually after several moments. "Or any form at all."

"Have you not heard?" A note of genuine surprise made its way into the question.

It had been weeks since the almost war at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, and Sauron was certain news of his return had reached every ear in Arda. Exempting Halfling ears, of course. The Dark Lord doubted those creatures cared for anything outside of their little Shire.

 _How rude._

Sauron frowned. He had never berated himself for thinking ill of anyone. It was truly strange that he should start now. A trickle of suspicion tickled his mind and even the Easterling's words failed to shake him out of his contemplations.

Ulfang, it seemed, had misinterpreted the reason for his expression. He lifted his chin and amended, "I have heard that your ring has been returned to you." His eyes darted to Sauron's fingers to confirm. "I did not realize what it meant. I apologize for doubting you, my Lord." He gave a low bow. His Men, seeing their leader's actions, followed suit. Straightening, Ulfang added with a smile, "It is an honor to personally be welcomed by Sauron himself."

The Dark Lord hummed distractedly, a curled finger tapping on thin lips. The action drew the Chief's attention downward but his gaze darted up almost immediately.

"Come, then." Sauron waved a beckoning hand, not hesitating to turn his back upon the Easterlings. Should they be foolish enough to attack him, they would quickly find out why he was called The Abhorred One. He pushed the previously peculiar thoughts out of his mind, deciding to investigate another day. His priority right now would be the alliance with these Men.

"As you wish, My Lord," Ulfang replied and signaled his Men to follow him into the gates of Mordor.

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Vairë scavenged through the entangled mess of her drapes, attempting to rebuild what had been destroyed. Any story she would weave now would be vastly different, and she mourned the loss of her magnificent tales.

Then, an odd thread caught her eye. She pulled it away from the heap, delicately holding it between her fingers. On one side, the string was soaked with the darkest of black, the touch Morgoth evident upon the fëa. The other side, however, glowed a shimmering golden hue, obviously untainted by evil and belonging to a Free People.

Vairë stared, curiosity growing at the unusual configuration. She had never the likes of it before.

It seemed an interesting destiny was unfolding.

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	3. Teas Could Start (And End) Wars

The Dark Lord watched patiently as the leaders of the tribes of Dunland, Rhûn, and Harad shouted profanities and offered threats to one another. The noise inside the chamber was deafening, and Sauron observed the slaves meant to attend to their every need were trembling in fear.

In the lifetime that did not come to pass, the Dark Lord had let his Mouth, an unassuming but ambitious Man of Gondor, handle all the politics. It had taken the Mouth of Sauron a few years of negotiation with the Umbarians and Easterlings to come into the most beneficial concession. In this one, Sauron had decided to participate in the discussion in hopes of speeding up the process. However, it appears, with or without the Dark Lord's presence, the Men would still be prone to disagreements. All thirty-three tribe leaders and army generals now stood bickering in an all too large chamber. Perhaps Sauron should have negotiated with them separately instead of gathering them all in one room at the same time. It seemed he had overestimated Men's desire to please him.

While Sauron relished hate and fear, he loathes chaos and disarrays. He preferred that order was established and his followers were obedient. The fact that these tribes all had different and disagreeing rulers instead of uniting under one leader strengthened Sauron's resolve for conquest. He would rule all and ensure an effective and efficient system. He would control all and ensure peace reigned true, even if a few million Free People had to die for it.

Unbidden and unwelcome, a sour taste climbed the back of his throat. The Dark Lord's features sharpened as he frowned. He swallowed once, twice, thrice, desiring to dissipate the revolting tang. It did not quite work but the sensation became tolerable.

He noticed the tensed silence enveloping the room only after several seconds. The Dark Lord glanced up, wondering what had halted their hour-long arguments.

All the Easterlings' gazes rested upon Sauron, fear and wariness present in their countenance.

Tíbil, leader of the Dunlendings, cleared his throat. He combed his unruly dark beard and hair with thick fingers before saying in fluent Westron, "I apologize, my Lord, for forgetting my manners and responding to-" Here, he shot Madawi, chieftain of a tribe in Haradrim, a cool look. "-a barbarian's baiting."

Madawi snarled, showing off her jaggedly sharp teeth. She leaned towards Tibil, the beads in her brown hair tinkling as she laid her palms flat on the marbled table. "Do not mistake me for one of your unwashed _men_."

Ibaŕi, the heir of what constitutes a throne in the army of Balchoth, snorted and crossed his arms. "What? Your delicate sensibilities cannot handle a bit of dirt?"

Madawi did not take that kindly. And the arguing started anew, the chiefs and generals barely restraining themselves from maiming one another. Sauron watched them all for a few moments, but he could not find amusement at the maliciousness of Men's hearts. Instead, he felt something akin to exasperation. They were wasting precious time. He pulled out a raven-colored handkerchief from his overcoat pocket and covered his nose; although he would not admit it, on the issue regarding the Dunlendings' smell, the Dark Lord conceded that Madawi had a good point.

The hairs at the back of his neck stood up and Sauron lifted his gaze to face his observer. Ulfang, one of the very few who had opted not to join the squabbling, startled as the Dark Lord met his eyes. Sauron stared him down and the chief quickly turned his head away.

The Dark Lord wondered at the Man's thoughts for a second and not a second more, dismissing them as unimportant. The Easterlings had always worshipped him since the fall of the Númenóreans during the Second Age. The Dark Lord would let them look their fill if they would be more efficient and obedient for it.

Sauron let the altercations in the chamber continue, deciding he would let them tire themselves out. That way, Sauron reasoned, they would be less difficult to deal with.

With his free hand, the Dark Lord beckoned at a slave shaking behind a pillar. The slave's eyes widened, and his skin turned paler. With jittery steps and a bowed head, the young Man approached Sauron's seat. He halted quite a distance away.

"Y-Yes, m-m-my Lord?" he asked before audibly swallowing.

Sauron gestured for him to step closer. The young Man swallowed again before complying, standing inches away from Sauron's chair.

Since Sauron disliked anyone towering over him, he commanded, "Kneel down."

The slave quickly dropped to his knees, creating quite a sound as his legs smacked onto the floor. The noise went unnoticed as the Men continued arguing. The slave looked pained but stayed attentive.

Sauron slightly lifted the handkerchief from his mouth, so his next words wouldn't be muffled.

"What kind of tea do we have in the kitchen?" he asked.

The slave blinked. "T-Tea?"

Throughout the years, the One Ring had watched as both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins gulped down an unhealthy amount of the substance. Since the One Ring was merely a ring, it could not have registered the taste of the strange beverage. All it could know was its bearer's thoughts, and the Halflings' thoughts were filled with nothing but praises.

Curiosity had gripped Sauron when he came by the memories and now, without anything else to do but wait, he would have time to quench it.

"Uh, I, I would see wh-what is in the pantry, m-my Lord," the slave replied before hastily getting to his feet and dashing towards the exit.

Sauron lifted an elegant brow. The slave did not wait to get dismissed. He would have to punish them for such disrespect when they come back with his request. Sauron turned to observe the bickering happening once more. Men had such short lifespans and yet they opted to waste their time on frivolity.

He tapped his fingers upon the ornate table, golden ring clinking against the wood. His mind went over battle strategies, advantageous terrains, green fields, weapon suppliers, stews for armies, and the bloodied forms of Elves, Men, and Maiar.

Several minutes later, the same slave came walking in, accompanied by another. Sauron snapped out of his musings at their entrance. Both slaves carried a tray filled with steaming cups. The cups contained liquids of different shades of brown, red, and white. Sauron tried not to let his surprise show as two trays were placed before him. He was unaware that tea could come in different hues. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins had only partaken in honey-colored ones.

The Dark Lord removed the handkerchief from his nose and the full fragrance of the beverages hit him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Warm and soothing with a hint of sweetness, the smells wafted across the room.

The dignitaries' aggressive discussions tapered off as each of them curiously turned to look at the source of the aroma.

Sauron ignored them as he opened his eyes and stared at all eighteen cups. The slave kneeled before the Dark Lord's seat once more and said, "M-My Lord, th-these are all the k-kind of t-teas we have at the moment."

Sauron hummed, golden eyes darting between each item. After a few moments, he reached out for one that appeared to be the _chamomile_ kind that the Baggins were fond of drinking. He took a sip and the flavor of crisp apples burst upon his tongue. A touch of sweetness ran along the inside of his mouth, the sensation light and airy.

 _Someone knows how to make good tea,_ flitted by his mind and a feeling of contentment washed over him.

The Dark Lord hid his pleased reaction and instead, addressed the slave with a blank expression. "Were you the one who brewed all of these?"

The slave trembled again, fright evident in his expression. He hesitated before admitting, "Y-Y-Yes, my Lord."

 _Ask his name._

"What are you called?" Sauron asked before taking another much larger sip of his tea.

"M-My name i-is Vatii, my L-Lord."

The Dark Lord gave no gesture of acknowledgement and proceeded to finish his drink.

"What is that?" Ulfang interjected, brown eyes wide as he leaned forward from his seat to get a closer look.

"It has a . . ." Tíbil sniffed, eyes briefly closing. ". . . pleasant smell."

Sauron placed down his empty cup and claimed another filled one. Knowing that his silence would prompt more irritating questions, the Dark Lord gifted them an explanation. "It is tea - a beverage made from different kinds of plants and herbs."

The tea in the second cup tasted a touch sour and half as sweet.

 _Fruity_ , crossed Sauron's mind as he finished it. All the while, the Dark Lord noted the sudden silence and lack of movement in the chambers. He ignored the unspoken inquiries buzzing in the air, preferring to enjoy the quiet while it lasted.

"My Lord?" Ulfang called out after several moments.

Sauron carefully took a sip of his third cup before raising his head and acknowledging the chieftain.

Ulfang gestured towards the brewed teas with his head, expression oddly determined. "Try one?" he asked in accented Westron.

Sauron glanced at the remaining cups. The Dark Lord doubted he could finish them all before they get cold. So, he made a dismissive motion at the cups and went back to the one in his hand.

Ulfang bowed in gratitude before claiming a black-colored tea. The other chiefs watched him, restless but still not making a sound. He took a drink and then immediately spat it back. He smashed his cup, splattering its contents all over the floor. Without explanation, the chieftain lifted a hand, planning to slap away the cup from Sauron's hands.

The Dark Lord foresaw his intention and acted accordingly. He transferred his grip on his tea to one hand, and unsheathed his sword with the other. In less than a second, the tip of Sauron's blade was pointed threateningly at Ulfang's throat. The chieftain froze, and the rest of the Men tensed, fingers flitting by their respective weapons.

"M-My Lord-"

"Think carefully," Sauron clipped, voice low and eyes blazing with anger. How dare this Man raise a hand against him! "Your next words may be your last ones."

"Poisoned!" Ulfang exclaimed. "The-These teas are poisoned, My Lord!" Even with a sword on his throat, Ulfang moved his head to cast a venomous glare at Vatii. Vatii flinched violently and fell sprawling onto the ground in fright. Ulfang growled, "He placed something vile!"

Sauron's furious gaze snapped towards the slave, his sword arm ready to swing and eliminate two traitors at once.

Vatii vehemently shook his head and stuttered out, "I-I-There is n-n-no poison, my Lord! P-Please! I w-would never - I d-didn't -"

The slave's trembling frame and sincerely frightened expression cooled Sauron's temper slightly and brought him back to reason. Very few substances in Arda could negatively affect Sauron's physique and so, Ulfang's worry was for naught. The Dark Lord, however, was well-versed in the taste and presence of almost all types of poisons and venoms. Yet, he detected none of them in the three cups he had consumed.

Sauron gave a contemplative glance at the dark liquid pooling around the ground by Ulfang's feet.

 _Black tea,_ his mind supplied. _Well, black teas are an acquired taste. They're brewed more bitterly than any other tea_.

The bitter tang had perhaps surprised Ulfang's palate, and he had mistaken it for poison. Sauron almost lost an ally and a useful slave over a misunderstanding. The Dark Lord removed his sword from its precarious position over the chieftain's neck. Ulfang let out a small sigh of relief and the tension in the room decreased minutely.

Then, Sauron bristled amid sheathing his blade, a sense of wrongness slapping him. It took him a pregnant moment to figure out the problem.

Black teas are an acquired taste. How did Sauron come by this knowledge when today was the first time he had tasted such a drink?

Mayhaps it was knowledge he gained from the Baggins? The Dark Lord rummaged through his memories, skimming through the years his ring kept the Baggins company. No specific instances stood out; in the years where his ring was in the possession of the Halflings, neither Bilbo nor Frodo Baggins ever drank a drop of black tea.

Black teas are an acquired taste. He could not have gotten it from the Baggins. Then, how did Sauron _know_?

A chill tickled the base of his spine. As trivial as the issue was, it was a large addition to the ever-increasing strangeness occurring recently around him.

Something was amiss, and Sauron intended to resolve it quickly.

But first, he had to calm the waters. The Dark Lord searched the teas before him until he found one with a similar color to the cup Ulfang had picked. He replaced the cup in his hand with it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ulfang stiffen.

To Vatii, the Dark Lord commanded, "Tell me the taste of this tea."

The slave clumsily got to his feet and leaned forward to see it more clearly. "O-Oolong, my Lord, I believe. It-It taste a b-bit bitter, my Lord. Bu-But-"

"Drink." Sauron held out the cup towards Vatii.

Vatii took it and gulped everything down at once. He grimaced at both the heat and aftertaste of the beverage, his nose scrunching up. The Men and the other slaves stared at him expectantly for several minutes, and Vatii shifted uncomfortably. When the slave didn't drop dead, everyone looked uncertain as to their next course of action.

"There is no poison," Sauron said, breaking the awkward silence. "Perhaps the tea had not merely been to your taste, Chief Ulfang."

Vatii vehemently nodded, wide eyes alight with realization as they turned to Ulfang. "Yes, that must be it, my Lord! Black teas are not eve-"

"You will speak only when spoken to," The Dark Lord reprimanded sharply, angered that the slave seemed to be forgetting his place.

Vatii's mouth promptly shut closed with a click, and the color drained from his face.

Sauron picked up the tea he had abandoned earlier. Several of the Bórian tribes planted and harvested beets, and the said vegetable were their main source of food. The Dark Lord suspected Ulfang, being of the tribe, would prefer a sweeter drink.

He handed his tea to the chieftain and Ulfang took it hesitantly, confusion evident.

"Mayhaps that will satisfy your palate." Sauron nodded at the cup. "It is the sweetest I have tasted so far."

Ulfang switched his stare between the Dark Lord and the beverage in his hand. The army generals and other chieftains, who had been oddly quiet for a long while, watched the scene, expressions ranging from baffled to amused. Concluding that he had no choice, Ulfang lifted the cup to his lips and took a small drink.

Sauron looked on as the chief's face morphed from wariness to pleasantly surprised. Ulfang gazed down at the tea with new eyes. Sauron was pleased that he had guessed correctly.

Seeing the Lord's expression, Tíbil ventured with a query, "May I also try one?" He cleared his throat. "Only, I have not even heard of such a drink existing."

Sauron gave him the smallest of nods before getting a new cup for himself. Tíbil approached the gathering of teas and plucked one after a moment of contemplation.

"We grew plants for teas," Madawi shared, stepping nearer towards the steaming cups. "Good trade with neighbors." The chieftain made a gesture to the teas, silently asking for permission from the Dark Lord.

Sauron refrained from sighing. So that he would not be interrupted any more from enjoying his drink, he said aloud, "Any of you may choose a tea of your preference." To Vatii, he advised, "I suggest you make more."

The slave saw the suggestion for what it was - an order. Vatii nodded rapidly and headed for the kitchen once more.

Given permission, the lords, leaders, and generals each picked up a cup, undoubtedly curious. They conversed with each other, describing and discussing the taste of the tea they ended up with. Their voices and tone were calm, a stark contrast to the cacophonic shouting matches occurring just minutes ago.

Ulfang bowed deeply from the waist. "Lord Sauron, please forgive me for the trouble I've caused."

Sauron stayed silent, letting Ulfang squirm for a good while. Then, he said magnanimously, "Make sure it would not happen again."

Ulfang straightened and nodded jerkily. A few minutes later, Vatii entered, carrying more steaming cups.

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The tea-drinking session lasted an hour. Sauron dismissed the Men shortly after that, informing them that they would reconvene the morning after. The Dark Lord knew the Men would exchange only a few words before everything devolved down to bickering once more. Sauron would have to decide on a plan of action to lessen nonsensical and chaotic arguments amongst them.

Sauron also planned to resolve the restlessness surrounding his thoughts before his any of his plans proceed further.

The Dark Lord went inside his chambers, shoulders determined set in a determined and tensed line. He replaced his leather-made clothes with a night shirt and soft-padded trousers. For the next few hours, he would have to be comfortable.

Then, he sat on his bed and slowed his breathing. He closed his eyes and retreated within the Songs tying his being together.

Sauron's fëa had been torn to shreds by the destruction of his ring and had been weary from being thrown across time. The Dark Lord feared that all the endeavors he had undertaken had done irreparable damage to his fëa. If so, neglect would lead to irreversible madness - _his_ madness.

Not every being was gifted with the ability to grasp and understand the Songs resonating within themselves. Maiar, with their ability to control the Songs of Arda, have the power to visualize their fëa like an actual scenery. Given such, Maiar were able to recall everything in perfect clarity, solve problems in quick succession, and control their body's processes. The mindscape of each creature in Arda with the ability differed, each determined by their races and experiences.

For Sauron, his mindscape took the form of the only place where he found solace: a blacksmith's workshop. Hammers and chisels of different sizes hung upon the nails on the wooden walls. Metal pipes and blocks littered the desks and floors while scrolls were kept neatly inside a barrel on the corner. Two anvils sat in the center of the room, a rusting pair of tongs placed atop their smooth surface. Fire emanated from the eternally lit forge, warming and lighting up the chambers.

The sight of it sent a small pang of nostalgia through Sauron. The last he had glimpsed his workshop was when he was creating his ring. It had been far too long.

The Dark Lord ran his fingertips against the tools on the wooden desk, each touch igniting a distant memory or offering an offhanded idea. He continued skimming through his memories and experiences, through his thought processes and sentiments.

When Sauron turned his attention to the tools hanging by the walls, he finally found something amiss. Where small pliers should lay, only bereft nails stood hammered. Swages, fullers and drifts were also gone from their respective containers and places. With each discovery, Sauron grew increasingly alarmed. While missing nails and metal blocks could be forgiven, the Dark Lord's fëa could not persist long without such important tools. How could have Sauron lost so much of himself and not notice sooner?

Flames of anger sparked in him, frustration and hatred taking root upon his fëa. But before he could reach out to the physical realm and lash out against the whole of Arda, a speck of dirt caught his eye.

His fury cooled from surprise as his attention flicked to the ground. Observing it closer, Sauron realized that it was not just a speck. Parts of the floor were splattered and smudged with mud and dirt. Footprints made by incredulously large feet marked half of them. Confusion filled him, and his mind sought to make sense of it all.

Sauron kneeled and delicately pressed a finger upon it, fighting down a flinch of disgust. The touch evoked nothing from Sauron. The misplaced earth was truly foreign to his fëa. Was this a curse? An enchantment of unknown purposes? How had Olórin place a curse upon him during their brief contact? The possible answer troubled the Dark Lord further.

Then, as if the wool had been pulled from his eyes, Sauron saw it. He paled, gingerly picking himself off from the ground.

For there, in a corner opposite of the forge, was a door.

There was a door in his workshop where there should have been none. The workshop should have contained the entirety of his fëa. How could the door leading to anywhere else exist?

A terrible suspicion bloomed in Sauron's mind, the pieces of an impossible puzzle falling into place. The Dark Lord hurried to the impossible door, hoping to disprove his conclusions. He slammed against it and the wooden thing opened easily against his assault.

Sunlight blinded him, and he lifted an arm to shield his face. When his eyes had adjusted, a pinch of real fear pierced him.

A very blue sky laid overhead, the sun casting glaring morning rays. Not a few feet away from the Dark Lord laid the beginnings of a garden twice the size of his workshop.

There, in the middle of the field, kneeled Bilbo Baggins, a straw hat upon his curly head and fingers digging through the dirt.

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 **A/N:**

Whop-te-doo, I'm back to writing! Man, 2017 had been an interesting year and for some reason, it sucked out all of my creative juices. I thought I finally got tired of writing. But, here now, I'm glad to get back to it!

I've been dreaming about this story for a while so I finally finished a chapter! I have so many things in store for Bilbo and Sauron and I really hope I get to share it with you guys.

Hopefully, my muse would let me update a Suicidal Journey soon . . . Oh, if you have any questions, please feel free to PM me! I don't usually reply to reviews (but I'm so happy to get them!) so sorry about that .

Constructive criticisms are very much welcome!

Have an awesome day, y'all!

~ Vividpast


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